• Peanut butter crackers, stacked 12 high on a ceramic plate, more than I could ever eat even if I wanted to. The salty odor drifted up to my unappreciative nose. Disgusting.

    It was a nervous habit of mine, making crackers. Most people tear up paper or scrub the floor, but I slapped Jiffy onto Saltines. Wow, talk about living.

    I had nearly 30 nutty squares by the time I ran out of crackers. After wiping my sticky hands on my faded black jeans I tossed the lid back on to the jar of peanut butter and spun it closed. Finding some sort of joy in watching the green plastic twirl round.

    School had been boring as usually with stuffy adults trying to cram as much useless facts into your already brainwashed mind. And as usually I had been assigned extra homework for my lack of attention during lectures. Ugh. How could my teacher’s blame me for clock-watching, window-staring, and generally spacing out?

    Speaking of clocks, my mom would be home soon. I’d better get upstairs and pretend to do my homework if I wanted to avoid the usual mind-numbing speech.

    “How was your day?” my mother would ask with fake enthusiasm.

    “Just peachy,” I would reply, trying only half heartedly to keep the sarcasm dripping from my voice.

    Then, she would smile, nod and begin to chatter on about her tedious life.

    But I couldn’t complain, at least she didn’t drink like Alana’s mother, and at least she tried to pretend she cared.

    There was a big difference between caring and loving, I realized as I sauntered up the carpeted stairs to my room. My mother loved me more as a big sister loved her annoying little sibling than a mother loved her child. Not that I could blame her, she’d been very young when my real mother, her big sister, died and I was forced upon her. Sometimes I wonder if the only reason she took me in was because no one else would.

    I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice when I reached my bedroom and nearly ran into the door. Blinking, I turned the old brass knob and pushed it open.

    My room looked exactly how I had left it; messy and plain. Darn.

    I stepped over the unfinished school work littering my light wooden floor and flopped onto my unmade bed. But I sat up quickly as I felt something hard jab my back.

    After searching through my mess of sheets for a few seconds I came across a very old, faded looking book.

    Strange, I didn’t remember ever seeing it before.

    Curiously, I flipped to the page. A surfeit of dust spilled of the page into my pale face, making my eyes water.

    “Diary of Reinette Rousseau: The Red Haired Queen.”

    I furrowed my eyebrows in pure confusion. Since when had I kept a diary or called myself a queen?

    Hoping to answer some of these questions, I flipped through the book once more. This time smart enough to close my eyes for a few seconds before doing so.

    Just six words were scrawled on the frail, yellowing page.

    “Dear James,
    I have a secret.”